Stale Air
by kestralspace
Summary: A crime which Alex can't remember. What will she do when Gene is kidnapped?    Rated T for now. May Change. Galex!


Hi! This is my first attempt at fan-fiction...I've been inspired by all the brilliant writers on here to give it a go! Reviews would be amazing... criticism is always appreciated!

Many thanks to my BETA Vintage1983, without whom this would have stayed on my computer!

This is set some time in series 3...it is AU!

This does contain scenes of rape and violence. Don't read if you are under-age please!

I've rated this T going by everything else on here...if that is wrong...please say so!

I do not own Ashes to Ashes. Unfortunately. Or maybe that's a good thing...I might have murdered Keats!

* * *

The air was stale. It smelt like water that had been too long stagnant and the slight tang of sewage. She wondered, absently, if she had in fact been spun a line, but by now she was too desperate to care. Like a dark plague it slowly circled her and feasted upon the last of her fickle hope: vultures on the carcass of a dying child.

She slipped suddenly, and the splash of her boots into the mud echoed in the tunnel, resounding off its looming walls. She cowered. Then held the candle she gripped with undeserved certainty higher, and continued.

Around and around in her head spun possibilities she didn't want to see, didn't want to think about. With little conviction she pushed them back, but they flooded her defences.

A sigh. Acceptance.

She wondered if he was dead. She wondered if she was dead.

They'd begged her not to come. Even Ray. Keats especially. She'd wanted to break and all he could do was give her that stupid smirk of a smile and tell her it was too dangerous.

Too dangerous? She laughed now. There was nothing, no one, here to make it dangerous.

She remembered how good, how satisfying it had been to wipe that smile off his face. How good it had felt to vent her anger out on the man who had told her that he could take her home. How good the smash of glass and crunch of bone had felt.

Fleetingly, she wondered if she would have to face the consequences of such satisfaction. She didn't care.

In the back of her mind she registered to the lethargic trickle of water, and wondered how long it would take for the tunnel to fill with water.

A glance at her watch.

Then another.

Twenty-one hours. Twenty-one hours with a bunch of madmen and guns.

Was he dead? Dead already? She hadn't even said goodbye. Hadn't even told him what he was to her.

The tunnel started to spin, and the anger, the hate and the raw unchecked rage exploded within her. She hated him! Hated him so badly that even the mask of polite friendship hadn't disguised it, hated him so the love which lay rapped beneath the layers of resentment twisted and convulsed in attempt to escape, painfully torturing her from the inside out.

She cursed it again and again. Her hands shook as the possibilities flooded back and she screamed into the blackness which was her heart, screamed into the stupid tunnel she found herself in.

Deeper breathing calmed her. She focused. There was light at the end of the tunnel. A smile lit her face slightly, light mingling with the pallor of her skin and the dark smudge belonging to a woman who knew she needed sleep and the make-up she used to disguise that. She wondered what she looked like. What would Gene think when he saw her?

The smile was gone swifter than the bastard who had taken him from her. If. If he saw her.

They had been out to see some informant, she couldn't remember his name. He'd warned at Hunt but as usual, he hadn't listened. Hadn't even listened to her when she told him that they would know who he was.

They had of course. Knew immediately. Who else wore that pout, had those eyes which turned from sparkling arrogance to terror itself so quickly?

They had been flat lately. She wondered why. Wondered if Sam Tyler and his stupid jacket had anything to do with it.

The tunnel opened up when it met the river. There was a jetty, a few boats with engines. Like the one he had taken on that first case. Ray, Chris and him. Like some sort of movie. No wonder she had thought that it wasn't real.

Now it was too real.

The jetty wobbled. Her heal got stuck between bits of planking and she pulled it away in frustration. Took the stupid shoes with their stupid heals off. Threw them in one of the boats.  
Futile really, to think that you might hotwire a boat the same as a car. She could try, she supposed. For a moment she wished for Ray, but she had to do this alone.

Another smile as the boat jolted in to life. Then another wish for assistance. They would hear the engine coming, if they were still there. After a moment she decided she didn't care. If they had kept him alive this long they wouldn't kill him now. If he was dead? If he was dead she would have her vengeance.

She would have her vengeance? She sniggered at herself. A woman with three loaded pistols against a gang of men with machine guns?

As the boat skimmed the murky water towards the other side of the river, she wondered if she would even make it. How many would they have on watch? Three? Five?

The shots never came, but the screams did.

* * *

Gene wondered how long he had been there. She had told him, earlier, in what seemed like another life, that those tortured were likely to hold out for less than 24 hours.

He felt worse than a month of hangover Mondays, but they hadn't asked for anything from him, hadn't explained why.

He wondered if it had been five minutes, or five days. He thought it was more than the former. Couldn't be sure.

Indolently his eyes drooped. The guard with the mask and the shotgun kicked him awake again. He didn't even turn to look at the bastard. 'Communication with the captor,' she had said, 'makes it all that much easier to get the victim to co-operate.' Well he was fucked if he was going to co-operate. Fuckin' Nazi torturing bastards.

The case had been bought to their attention a months ago when a young copper had been kidnapped and his girlfriend murdered. Whilst walking home from the cinema, they had taken him, and shot the girl. There had been no witnesses to the crime. There had been no ransom note.

A few weeks later it had happened again. Then again and again in quick succession. There were never any witnesses, there were never any prints and there were never any suspects. A black line of inquiry. Nothing.

Until, one day one of the victims had been found, tortured and left for dead in a ditch half-way up the country. Then they had had something to go on.

Apparently there were a group of them. He didn't know how many. They carried guns and wore black balaclavas. They tortured for no apparent reason: no suspects, not names, nor confidential files. Then after a while information, they disappeared. Except from that one half-dead copper, who had later been found in hospital with a bullet through his head.

Naturally, nobody heard or saw anything. There was no CCTV in toilet cubicles.

He had been at a loss. He had watched as the dark shadows beneath her eyes grew. Watched as Keats pushed himself closer to her. Watched, and then carried her up the stairs to her flat every time she drank too much and muttered on about some shit about remembering. He wondered if she was insane. Wondered if they both were.

It was always worse the next day. He felt pathetic for caring, she felt pissed off because he did. Keats added shit to the caldron and stirred.

Before, before he shot her, he'd loved it when she'd argued with him. She'd been so beautiful: eyes shining in anger or frustration, voice raised, hair flying along with the insults and god-damn poncy theories and facts. So alive. Now?

Now it was flat. Sure her eyes lit up from time to time when they had a lead on a difficult case, sure she smiled, sure she argued. But it was flat. Uncaring. Either Keats or Tyler was always in the way, and he wasn't quite sure he'd ever see that side of her again.

Bloody Tyler. Always getting in the way.

The backhand across the back of his numbing head bought him back to reality.

'Got a present for you mate.'

That voice? Who's was it?

He heard the metal door grind into opening and the screech of stumbling heals.

He looked up, and the expression he saw was despair.

* * *

Where were the people? It was too quiet. She had figured it would be. The bigger the operation: the smaller the team. It was logical...less risk. But for her to be able to just walk in?  
Her heals made their way down the corridor towards the screams.

Nine now. Nine young men snatched. Nine tortured. Two found dead. One found alive then shot in an empty toilet cubicle.

She had agonized over it. But she couldn't remember. Couldn't remember a case like this, couldn't remember who had done it, or how long it had gone on for. Couldn't remember anything. It killed might have killed him.

The door she'd just walked past had been open, she realized. Quickly she swung around, a gun in her hand, and crept forward towards the open door. She peered around it, but there was nobody there. Just another empty corridor. Disjointedly, she cocked her head on one side to listen. Then continued past the open door.

Another set of open doors into another corridor in a building which seemed deserted. There were no lights here. She reached out: slid her hands down the white walls to find a switch. Cursed silently under her breath when she could find none.

In the dark, she couldn't see them come for her.

* * *

When she saw him, the relief almost overwhelmed the frustration and hate, pushing it back into the depths of her, before she looked at him and saw despair.

He was broken like the pieces of the teapot she had smashed in frustration the night before; the pieces of him were cracked. Gene Hunt was dead. In his place was a man she didn't recognise. Save the eyes. They met hers with a flame of sudden anger, and when he spoke, his voice a mixture of fury and resignation, they fell flat once more.

'Bolly.'

They threw her in the corner with no ceremony. Handcuffed her to a chain which clinked against the eerie silence. She saw the irony and smiled.

It was a while before she looked at him again, but he felt his gaze on her. Sometimes a caress. Sometimes a rough shaking of shoulders which left her to shudder as the pain ripped through her.

They had left them there for minutes, maybe hours before she turned her eyes on him again. The sound of the others' screams filled the air, rippled through the silence between them as a rousing operetta might. It made no difference, she supposed. Whatever, it gave them both something to hide behind.

He shuddered when she did look at him. Shuddered, and broke all over again. He wondered what cruel twist of fate had made it possible for that arrogant, stuck-up, woman to be able to do that to him. With effort, he met her gaze.

Her voice was quiet, but still angry. He could hear the rage beneath her seemingly neutral words.

'Have they asked you for anything?'

He looked at her for a long moment. She squirmed beneath his gaze.

Another silence.

'Have they...?'

'Nothing I couldn't handle.'

She looked away. 'Do you know how many there are?'

Now his voice was hard. Louder too. 'No.'

'Not a guess? An estimate?'

'What part,' his voice was hard now, as angry and her anger which simmered beneath the questions which made him feel like a victim in an interview room, 'Of no, do you not understand?'

That quietened her.

'How long?'

'How long what?'

'How long have I been here?'

'I don't know. Perhaps twenty-one, twenty-two hours.'

He laughed bitterly. Shook his head. 'What happened?'

'What happened when?'

'After?'

'Not much. What's-his-name told me to come here. I punched Jim.'

He did a double take. 'What?'

'I was pissed off with Jim. I punched him. Five times I think. Maybe six. I imagine he's in hospital.'

Hunt smiled at that, she noticed. 'Good.'

'He deserved it.'

'Wish I'd have seen it.'

'It wasn't pretty. I got blood all over your carpet. And your desk.'

'You can clear that up then. When we get out of here.' Once again bleak, his voice a croak.

'If,' she said, 'If we get out of here.' She looked at him, seeking reassurance. 'We will won't we?'

He sounded as if he was about to cry, but she didn't notice that. It was a moment before he plucked up the courage to say it. 'Of course Bolls.'

* * *

I'm sorry.

Again and again the words span in his head. Briefly, he wondered if he'd ever get the courage to tell her. To tell how sorry he was. He doubted it. As usual he was too much of a coward.

They'd been back. Had dragged her out by her hair, leering at her the same way he had when she had first arrived dressed like a hooker. Except from she wasn't a hooker. She was his DI. His. And now he couldn't do anything to stop these leering men behind material masks, these leering men with their fists and their guns and their...

He tried not to think of that. Tried not to question whether she would scream, if he would hear her scream amongst the other poor sods they kept in this God-forsaken place.

He'd never believed in God. Even as a kid when all he's cared about was mucking around at doing stupid impressions of the vicar to impress his mates. Even when he'd bragged about not believing in front of disapproving adults he knew he was speaking the truth. God left him alone. He left God alone. He'd never gone to God for help.

Now was different. Now, stuck in this cell, expecting at any moment to hear her screams, now, he'd take whatever help available. He wondered if he was being punished for not believing before.

* * *

She felt dead. Wondered if she could in this parallel world. She didn't know how long she'd been there. Kicked awake every time she tried to sleep.

Then they drag her out. She didn't know how often it was, but at regular intervals she thought. She was tossed back into that same cell afterwards, left wishing for anything but this, anything but the constant pain. All she could think about was relief. Gene, Molly, ceased to exist to her save for fleeting moments when the pain numbed, or grew so much that it was all she could do to keep thinking at all. She forced herself to remember then.

It was hours she thought before saw Gene again. She noted as she was lead through the door that he was no worse than when she had seen him before. She felt relief, then anger. How was it always her? How was it her who was always the one hurt? Targeted? In a freezer, a car. It was always the same. Was it because she was she was a woman? Was that it? Because she was too week, to fragile? Easy to victimize? Is that why Keats was always after her? Was it that easy? The bastard! She'd doubted, lost, Gene. They'd lost what they'd had before, whatever it was, because of her! Because she'd been too much of a woman, and too much of a fool to see beyond her own stupidity!

She was tossed back into reality by a hand across her face, found herself on her knees, opposite Gene. Subconsciously she felt herself wince, the pain of the impact against the swelling and bruising hurting more than the action itself. Absently she wondered what she looked like, wondered what Gene thought of her now, until she met his eyes and lost her thought.

She tried to focus. Failed. Tried again and found herself looking at a tortured expression which seemed to have lost control.

He must look, he thought, diabolical. It had always been such a gulf between them before, when he had been a year younger and a year happier. Now the difference between them was startling, and in his eyes the lust that still flared whenever she walked in, or was dragged in as now was disgusting. An old man after a beautiful woman. He turned his head away from: partly so he didn't have to watch them hurt her, and partly to hide from her. And that was all he ever did, hide from her.

There was a thud. It resounded in his eyes as her punch had, when he'd once called her a bitch. He swung around to look at her, saw her on the floor. His stomach seemed to churn and his breath caught. There was blood from the side of her head but her eyes were still blazing. From the depths of his pain he felt a flicker of hope. Her eyes were alive again.

The hope faded. They had swung her around and vaguely he registered their laughter. The drawing of straws. Bile rose in his throat. They were going to -he couldn't even think of the word- and in front of him. He couldn't think. He couldn't breathe.

They pushed her down, more of them coming in through the door. His eyes sought hers but she shook her head. She would take it, he realized. Even though that was all she had left now.

Even though he was there.

One of them looked at him. Gave him a smirk then reached for her skirt. He looked away. Felt the bile rise again and found it harder to hold it back.

He couldn't do it. Couldn't sit at let them rape her in front of him. Even if she could deal with it, somehow, somewhere along the line dealing with something like this had become impossible, because now, now this was personal.

'No.' Even to himself he sounded tortured. Like he was dying inside. He was, he supposed, or the equivalent of it.

And all there was now was Alex; Alex laughing, Alex smiling, just her.

'No?' The question was mocking.

'Let her go!' His voice had turned into a shout, he realized, and his fists were clenched.

'Gene,' the way she said his name sent shivers through his body, 'Don't.' Her voice changed from broken to fierce in a moment. 'It will only make it worse.'

'This isn't your choice Drake,' he was detached now.

'No.' She was resolute, 'It's mine.'

He choked on it then, on her pride and stupidly, allowed himself his. 'I won't watch my DI-'

'Is that all I am to you Gene, your officer? Your DI?' Cutting across him, her dying eyes met his and in that moment, a clarity passed between them.

She saw it then. And in that split second she realized that she was more important to him than her own happiness or opinion. The fleeting joy she felt as she realized fully sickened her.

One of them spoke, some sarcastic comment, but all she saw was him.

She watched as he fought them, chained as she had been. She watched as they held him and made him watch. And after, when they had gone and she was slumped on the floor, his eyes held her as his arms couldn't.

* * *

Is this okay? (Anxious face) More?


End file.
